Bound By Blood Part I
by Livia Caste
Summary: Atka, a female tiefling raised amongst the lythari elves, has reached an age of which she may venture beyond the clan. Saying her good-byes, she may soon realize that the rest of the world is not so kind.
1. Chapter 1

Bound By Blood

Part I

Clear crisp water dripped from the young girl's face, waking her up on this bright early morning. She stared out the window of her tree-house home, looking around at the other tree-homes that had been connected by hemp rope bridges and ladders. Not the typical place to find a tiefling. She was the only "Red Horn" in the native elven village. Today was a very important day for Atka. Her 20th birthday, today she gains the Right of Free-Crossing. All members of the clan are bound to the land which they live until the 20th year of birth. After that milestone members may travel, and come and go with the clan as they please. Of course, Atka did not know her true day of birth, this date is just an assumed marking she gave when asked.

She loved the clan with every ounce of her soul, but felt ready to see the world. Especially the cities. The Shaman and Matron of the Loftheart Clan, Lythia, knew Atka was eager for this day. Lythia would constantly warn her of the dangers of the outside. She did not fear that Atka would end up bloodied roadside, but she worried she'd lose her path from the honest ways of the forest elves. Atka spent years of rigorous training to prepare herself for the monsters that crawled outside the safety of the treetops, but was stubborn. She refused to believe the city folk were corrupt, and that the elves were just bias because she was a tiefling.

The ceremony was going to begin soon. Atka threw her sword over her back, and secured her half-steel half-leather armor to her chest and legs. The gauntlets she bore were razor-edged on the top of her wrist, good for combat when your opponent disarms your sword half way across the room. Her boots were knee high black leather, made from the tanned hide of the wild boars that wondered the woods, the tusks of the boar dangled from her belt. They clanked together as she walked out the door and slid down the ladder, her gloved preventing rope burn. She landed on a thick branch walkway, intertwined with other tree limbs, providing support. Atka's brothers and sisters smiled and waved as she ran through the trees, racing to the Matron's Reside. The ceremony was only between the Matron and the one gaining the Right.

"Mother Lythia!" Atka pounded her fist against her door excitedly, "It's-"

The door whirled open, the Matron stood tall in the frame, "Atka Loftheart!" A bright smile drew back unto her face, and her arms flung up and wrapped around the red-skinned girl. To Lythia, Atka was like a daughter, a real sister of the natives. "My daughter, are you ready?" She took a step back and lead her inside by her wrist.

"You know how I feel about today." Atka grinned, grabbing the hilt of her sword, "I could not be more ready if I had trained in the nine hells itself." The two friend's laughed together, seating themselves near the indoor fire pit. The stump stools they sat on were carved with ancient elven script, which translated into "Last to ride, but first to rise, the Champions are sure to find, and slay the man who brings the binds. Keep today as one in hand, never suggest an early end." This was one of Atka's favorite passages of the Four Scripts. Each of the elven sub-races had their own script. The Elves of the Forbidden Forest, the Drow of the Underdark, the Eladrin of the Feywilds, and the Lythari Wolf Elves all have their own Script that they follow as a people, and are sworn to protect it's resting place. All Four Scripts are hidden away in a secret temple, only the four Matrons know it's location.

The fire burned a clear purple flame, with a navy blue murky center. Lythia and the rest of the Loftheart clan were Lythari, wolf-elves. They could transform into dire wolves at any time, day or night. And though Atka could not mimic their racial abilities, she adapted herself as a known alpha figure in the clan, and so, her parting gift for her Right of Free-Crossing Lythia would tattoo her own Mark. The elf slowly placed her hand in the fire, using her magic to absorb it in her veins. She pulled her hand back and turned Atka around, pulling her shirt up exposing her back. With her magically charged hand she began to trace the Mark. It was a wolf head, it's jaw opened slightly biting down into a lamb's heart. The crude magic burned into her skin and she screamed in pain, she had heard from others that receiving their Mark was the most painful thing you'd face in the world. But she could never have imagined in her right mind the searing burn would leave such an incredible sting. Blood ran off her spine and pooled on the floor. Typically the burn-tattoo would be black "ink" on an Lythari's skin, but her scarlet skin the burn was a plum purple.

Crowds huddled around the house, eagerly awaiting the tiefling's return. They all wondered what Mark she was destined to have. The chatter was hushed, from time to time hearing from children, "I bet her's is the Mark of The Winged!" or "No, she's got to have the Mark of The Sun, she's a Red-Skin!"

Finally, the wooden door of the hovel swung open. The crowd hushed and even the rudest and chattiest children held their tongues awaiting Atka. The long-legged girl, strutted from the darkness that lurked behind the rotting door, her lengthy blonde hair swishing back and fourth behind her strung back in a pony-tail. Atka's eyes glowed a fierce scarlet, flushed with pain. She was topless and smoke rose from her shoulders as the last of the burn cooled off. The quiet crowd murmured to one another, then untroubled once more as Atka turned around and exposed her back. The uncovering was like unveiling a masterpiece at the heart of a museum, hushed gasps and whispers twirled around the elves lips.

"The Mark of the Heart." Lythia spoke from the shadows, stepping into the light of the forest. She rested her hand atop of Atka's shoulder, the tiefling's back still facing the crowd, "Atka, is no Lythari, that is for certain. But she has been with us for some time now... yes, quite some time." Lythia's eyes scanned the crowd, some of which had taken their wolf forms now.

"And she has grown among the people, learned our ways," She continued, "And so at the heart of this girl, underneath the rusty red veil that is her skin, lies the beat of our drums."


	2. Chapter 2

Part II

"Twenty gold on the half-breed!" And laughter roared throughout the tavern.

"The Beast stands no chance!" Another cried out, choking on his own rusty bellowing.

Belthor twirled around his pistol, not paying the group of wannabe thugs any attention. His gun was a kind of cruddy piece of machinery, that would constantly jam up and even backfire at times. But when it worked, man, it packed a punch. The tiny rare musket-balls would make cheesecloth out of any armor, even the strongest steel plating. It was the pride of his being.

His jet-black medium length hair was slicked back with oil, an his sideburns were greasy with sweat. The halfling kicked off from the back wall, observing the brawl. A large half-orc the crowd had given the nickname of "The Half-Breed" was hammering his fist into the face of another well-liked goon self-named "The Beast." The Beast was a toned and muscular dwarf, with a long braided beard, his hair gold as the viscount's treasury.

Victory went to the half-orc, his green-gray skin glistening with sweat. Angry at his loss, The Beast kicked over a bar stool and slammed his fist on the counter demanding another glass of ale.

"Ah, victory is a sweet taste indeed." The Half-Breed exclaimed, throwing down a shot of whiskey.

"It was a cheap shot that caught me." The dwarf muttered, red in the face.

"A likely excuse for a barrel chested topling!"

"Don't you dare get-"

"Enough!" Belthor interjected, "Why don't we all shake hands and agree you are both _very _skilled warriors and call it a night, eh?" He skipped over, grabbing the arms of the men, giving them a tight squeeze, "I mean, c'mon look at these guns! Almost a shame they are put to waste here in some filthy tavern when they could be put to a more noble cause!"

"Such as?" The Half-Breed distrustfully asked, "What could possibly be the greater motivation than reputation?"

"Gold" Belthor said releasing the arms of the men, "That is not a good reason to leave this slum is it not?" Belthor had been the self proclaimed king of The Cunning Folly, and did not like having ruffians disturb his tavern.

"Where can we find this... Gold." The Beast asked, playing with his beard.

"The Legion of course!" The halfling raved, "Sign up together, as a pair you two would be near unstoppable!"

And with that the band of goons dispersed and The Half-Breed and The Beast took their thankful leave, gathering a jolly farewell before going off to the Legion. The Legion was an organization of mercenaries. Well-known and respected, The Legion had the Kingdom in the palm of it's hand. Little did the Viscount enjoy. He would constantly deny The Legion's grip on the economic system, and claimed his rule still directed the Kingdom. But it did not matter if he accepted it or not, everyone else knew. He had no real power. The cities bend to the will of the mercenary troops that occupy them.

After the majority of the patrons dispersed from The Cunning Folly, Belthor checked in with the owner in her private room.

"Now you are positive I cannot stay for one more night?" He begged, flipping a small coin purse unto the large oak table.

"Fine." Shylia sighed, "But _only _one more night, no exceptions. I expect you out before dawn's end." She took the coin purse and stabbed a short knife into the table, "Don't sleep in, you might not wake."

Belthor nodded, rubbing his throat, understanding her intentions, "Never fear my good lady I'll be out before the cock crows!" The small man walked back to the bar, it was raining now. You could always tell when it was raining, for the roof had been horribly shingled. Water pooled at the foot of the entrance. Without a warning the door slammed open, thundering as it smacked the wall. A female walked in, and the door creaked shut. She was drenched and shivering, and looked rather disappointed. She sat down at a bar stool and ordered a drink, holding back her tears. Noting the girl's depressive aura, Belthor took a seat next to the young lady, and asked her why she was so upset.

"The world was _nothing_ as I had thought it." Atka replied, ringing out her over shirt. He laughed and ordered them both another round of mead.

"Oh? And what did you expect?"

"I don't know. Wizard's holding citizens captive. Smuggler's crossing the open road? Assassins around every corner?"

"What have you encountered my noble heroine?" Belthor joking slapped her back. Agitated, Atka whipped around and glared, then looking down at the mossy floor angrily whispered, "A few harmless hunters and a caravan."

"I see." Belthor smirked, hatching an idea. "Tell you what. I can bring you on a _true _adventure of fame and glory."

"There must be a catch," Atka looked up suspiciously, but hopefully, "Out here catches is all I've found."

"Oh but of course there is always a price to pay! All I ask of you is to keep an open mind..." The halfling pulled out a parchment from his pocket and unfolded it to the table, "...and keep your wits as sharp as your sword." On the paper was a coarse map, unskillfully drawn to say the least.

"Looks like it was drawn by a five year old." Atka scoffed, taking another swig.

"Looks can be deceivingly inaccurate." He pulled his shirt up a bit, over his arm, his muscular bicep bulging out, "Does it really look like I can lift a war-pony off the ground?" At that the tielfling smiled, knowing very well her appearance reflects little of her background said for her Mark of The Heart. Which she could only guess is known only by the elves in which case, other races might just see it as a normal tattoo.

After a few more round- only the Gods knew how many- Atka drunkenly agreed to join Belthor and his companions on their quest to retrieve some magical crystal sword she knew not the name of. They would ride out before the sun rose, out of this backwater town and to the capitol, where Belthor expected to purchase a ship and sail off to the location artlessly mapped out.

One night of talk, next thing she knew, she was off with a halfling and his posse to gain fortune and... infamy? Not what she had initially signed up for. Atka thought she'd be taking out slavers and and stealing from the rich to give to the poor, like in the old stories. The red-skinned girl instead found herself now signed with a company, one she barely knew, might she add, and what were her tasks? Petty thievery, gambling, working her ass off and for what? If she did not bring at least 20 gold to Belthor a day, then she'd be subject to a lashing.

Later, in the capitol city of Targ, there was a meeting for the squads of the East Wind Company. Belthor's unit, was named The Silver Spoils. They had always ranked last in earnings, and Belthor was determined to change that. Around a large oak table the small unit had taken their seats. Belthor in the largest chair, embroidered with their insignia. To his right sat a large scaley male dragonborn named Aragun, he was Atka's weapon master. She was fond of him, he seemed just about the only one with a shred of honor to his name. To Belthor's left, a tiny human girl, still she had a good foot and a half over the halfling con-man. Julia was trained in the dark magicks. Lastly, seated to the direct left of Atka, Gunnor. The worst of the entire lot. A pitiful tiefling that would make any level-headed pee-brain spit in his direction. The foolish archer thought himself so high and mighty, Atka constantly wished to knock him down to his proper size.

"So that's it, crew." Belthor tossed a chest in the center of the table, "The very last of it. Just enough to set us up with a small cutter. It'll need constant tending to, with only five crew on board."

"We won't be hiring crew-hands?" Aragon wedged his voice in, his massive hand lifting the chest singularly.

"Hmpt. You really think Belthor would waste his time buying hands when he gets us for practically nothing?" Juls chimed in, a spark of light dancing on the tips of her fingers.

"Speaking of which, where's our cut from working our arses off?" The dragonborn shaked the chest, the jingling of the coins lifting his spirits.

"All in time, friends!" Belthor smiled cunningly and waved the deed to the cutter in front of their faces, "What I gathered you for tonight is, the naming of the ship. It's bad luck to sail under a nameless lady."

"The Faceless Brute, perfect to strike fear into the hearts of our foes!" Gunnor excitedly leaned forward, he always liked when people "feared" him. Though Atka did not believe he was all that frightening. He was scrawny and light skinned, his horns barely peeking over his skull.

"Bahamut's Bounty" Aragon glowed with pride for his deity.

"No, no, no! None of that rubbish." Juls shot down their names quickly, her stunning looks easy tided them over, "I say we allow our newest member to make the decision, she's not gotten to put a real stamp on The Silver Spoils yet. Atka."

Atka looked around the table, as everyone fixed their gaze on her. She looked down, and found herself fiddling with her tail nervously. "Well." She grabbed the detailed blueprint of the ship from Belthor, examining it closely. Then it finally struck her. "The Red Remedy."

"The Red Remedy?" Gunnor repeated, "And how will that show our foes we wish to pillage and sunder them?"

"It won't." Belthor cut off Atka before she could answer, "They will see our ship and expect aid. When they think us friendly, they will let us aboard their ships, and _that _is when we will strike." He stroked his sideburns masterfully. "Good work Atka, knew I brought you for a good reason."

Atka nodded and turned away, the unit breaking apart. She had no intention to name the ship that for a deceptive reason. Aragon joined her at the bar of the tavern as she mumbled to him, "Is there truly no honor...?"


End file.
